


Your Time is Over

by I_am_THEdragon



Category: Gangpol & Mit (Band)
Genre: Gen, The 1000 People Band, Tiny Woody Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_THEdragon/pseuds/I_am_THEdragon
Summary: The members of The 1000 People Band are gifted a living wooden doll by a skilled woodcrafter. Over and over, to wooden creature meets its demise, as the nature of the band progresses.





	Your Time is Over

They’d only come to pick up the body of Anton’s new contrabass, which the wood craftsman had made especially for him. It was sort of a ‘thank you’ gift for Anton, who had saved the woodsman from a rather unusual tree-related debacle some month or so earlier. The bassist and his two fellow musician friends planned to simply pick up the stringless instrument and leave, but the woodcutter had made an additional offer.  
“Wanna see my little woody guys?”  
The offer was, naturally, returned with a mixture of confusion and slight revulsion at what the musicians assumed to be some sort of bizarre innuendo. However, what they were shown was beyond any of their expectations.  
On the woodsman’s crafting table lay four little figures, bipedal but not quite humanoid. They were made up of painted geometric blocks resembling wooden children’s toys, with large, friendly eyes. They were certainly a pleasant sight, but not at all spectacular if not for the fact that these strange wooden figures were moving autonomously! They shuffled around curiously, their geometric segments occasionally spinning around, without any interference from any surrounding force.  
This craftsman had not only built furniture, instruments, and desktop widgets; by some unknown means he had created life! The musicians were quite astonished. If they went back to tell the rest of their band, how many out of the nine hundred and ninety-seven of them would believe the tale without seeing it for themselves? Given the peculiarities of their world, probably a few of them. But that, of course, wouldn’t be enough!  
With gentle hands, the woodsman carefully scooped up one of the wooden figures and handed it to Patrick, the drummer.  
“He is the youngest of the lot.” He explained. “I only finished him last week. It’s rather tricky handling all four of these guys alone, you fellows can have this little guy.”  
The creature made a curious clicking noise as he shuffled around in the drummer’s hands, while the wood craftsman gave a brief lecture on how to care for their new little friend. It was fairly simple; be gentle, don’t drop him, don’t pull him apart, wipe him with a damp cloth if need be but don’t get him too wet, and steer clear of anywhere there might be termites.

Anton, Patrick, and Hakim took a liking to their small wooden companion very quickly. Upon returning to the rest of the band, many of the other musicians did so as well. They affectionately named him ‘Tiny Woody Boy’, or just ‘Tiny Boy’ for short. They would often practice playing their instruments for Tiny Boy, who would sit nearby and rock back and forth cheerfully until he grew bored. It soon became clear that Tiny Boy had a rather short attention span, as he could only be entertained by something for a short amount of time before moving on. He was somewhat like a small child, clicking and clattering happily when playing or being doted on, and making an agitated grinding noise whenever he grew tired or annoyed.  
The 1000 People Band was still in its somewhat early days. Things were progressing rather slowly, which made for a fairly relaxed band experience but could get rather boring when the shows to play were few and far in between. At least these easy days gave the bassist, drummer, and flutist plenty of time to muck around and entertain themselves however they pleased, and to play around with their little wooden companion.  
Where was Tiny Boy?  
Admittedly, they hadn’t been keeping much of an eye on him lately, typically passing the responsibility off to other nearby musicians. On occasion, he had turned up with subtle hints of damage, such as chips and scratches in his paint. No-one would own up to the damage, but Tiny Boy seemed to be his usual playful self regardless.  
One day, however, Patrick emerged from the bathroom of a venue at which he had just performed, only for his ears to be met with an unpleasant cracking and grinding sound. When he cast his gaze to the source of the sound, his eyes met a heartbreaking sight. There on the ground lay the scattered pieces of poor Tiny Boy, having been left on the unattended and ultimately killed by the opening door. Patrick was quite distraught by his fatal error, scooping up the lifeless wooden chunks and staring at his little companion’s remains with grief.

Rather than keep the incident secret to Tiny Boy’s creator, the trio of musicians decided it would be best to own up to their mistake and inform the woodsman of Tiny Boy’s death. The craftsman’s reaction to seeing the remains of his creation matched that of Patrick the night the poor little wooden boy perished. The wood craftsman, however, did not resent Patrick or any of the other musicians. In fact, with a forgiving nod, he offered over another one of his living wooden figures to Hakim, the flutist.  
“He’ll help you cheer up.” The man remarked with a sad smile. “He’s a little older but still rather cheeky, and lots of fun.”  
With things in the band picking up, and shows becoming more frequent and extravagant, the three musicians were unsure at first of whether or not to accept their new companion, but decided they would keep a better watch over this one regardless.

This new wooden figure was soon dubbed ‘Tiny Woody man’, for he was similar to Tiny Woody Boy but relatively more mature. He had a playful and energetic nature, but unlike his young counterpart he had a decent attention span and was less easily agitated. Tiny Man thoroughly enjoyed the music of The 1000 People Band, and would dance along to it during rehearsals. The musicians who weren’t playing their instruments would cheer him on as he shuffled and swivelled his blocky wooden body segments around to the rhythm. Anton, Patrick, and Hakim figured Tiny Man wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Tiny Boy, for whether or not the band kept watch of him he seemed to take enough care of himself for the most part. He was much more alert, at least. He would disappear from time to time but would turn up whenever he was looking for a good time.  
As the band experience grew wilder, so did the band members. After shows they would celebrate, indulging in groupies, alcohol, and whatever else to make a good night. They would sing and laugh as Tiny Man would clatter along with them in amusement. He seemed to have noticeably more mature tastes than his distinctly childlike brother. Tiny Man was, to no-one’s surprise, a hit at parties. Those unfamiliar with him were enchanted by his mere existence, a living wooden figurine with autonomous behaviour, and with enough alcohol or other substances one would his vaguely amusing dancing to be an absolute riot.  
Over time, on-stage demands started growing more intense. There were disagreements here and there, but things would ease off fairly soon after. If not, a night of mindless partying and indulgence would usually set things right. It was on one of these nights Hakim found himself sitting alone at a nightclub in the city he had performed a show in just hours earlier, sipping some cocktail he’d long forgotten the name and ingredients of. A mixture of fatigue and drunkenness had him rather quiet and drowsy, rather than rowdy. Lighting up a cigarette, the flutist wondered where his friends had gotten off too. Probably somewhere in the crowd making fools of themselves once again, he decided. Wherever they were, they’d left Tiny Man with him. Not that Hakim minded, of course. Tiny Man was always fun to have around.  
Hakim sighed as he scanned his surroundings with dizziness and double-vision, contemplating whether perhaps the novelty of it all was beginning to wear off. Before he could let that thought fester in his mind, he went to extinguish his cigarette only for it to hit something that was most certainly not his ashtray, quickly followed by a barely audible grinding shriek of pain. The flutist flinched and abruptly turned his attention to Tiny Man, who was already stumbling backwards in shock with a noticeable burnt mark on his face.  
“Oh shit I’m sorry!” Hakim exclaimed, jumping up and fumbling to catch his wooden companion.  
To his dismay, his drunkenness made his efforts clumsy and ultimately useless, as Tiny Man stumbled off the edge of the table and plummeted to his demise. Hakim watched as Tiny Man’s segmented body split apart violently upon hitting the hard floor. The flutist groaned in misery, sitting back down and holding his face in his hands, knowing he’d have to scoop those remains up and make another solemn visit to the woodsman.

The trio of musicians were not only upset, but also somewhat ashamed as they returned to the woodcutter’s workshop. They expected to be scolded for their irresponsibility, especially given the distinct cigarette burn on poor Tiny Man’s little blue face, but they were not. The woodsman’s grief was mixed with a hint of thoughtfulness as he contemplated his response.  
“He’s a lot less excitable.” The craftsman spoke quietly, handing one of his remaining two wooden figures to Anton. “Very clever and mature, and will work hard to earn his place.”  
The wooden creature in Anton’s hands did not shuffle about excitedly, only looked up at the contrabassist with a patient gaze. Naturally, he had doubts about taking yet another one of the little wooden folks back to the band. The first two had met their demise at the hands of his fellow musicians, who was to say the same wouldn’t happen again? But perhaps the third time would be a charm, as the saying went. The band’s days of fooling around were coming to a close, so maybe they were finally ready to put their irresponsibility behind them.

Busy Woody Man was the nickname of the newest arrival. He wasn’t fond of being played with or doted over like his two brothers, which was just as well, given that very few of the band’s 1000 members would have provided. On-stage demands were growing more intense once again, to the point where many musicians wanted out. Why they didn’t- or couldn’t- leave was a mystery to Busy Man, who didn’t ponder the thought for too long as his days were filled up with whatever behind-the-scenes work for The 1000 People Band he was capable of. The musicians no longer felt themselves responsible for the wooden man, who clearly had many responsibilities of his own. Busy Man could never show it on his expressionless little face, but his days brought him quite a lot of stress.  
He wasn’t the only one, though. Most of the band was beginning to feel the burn of stress, and the head musicians were suffering the most. Poor Hakim and Anton’s on-stage routine had been taken a rather cruel turn without their chance to object, leaving them to be pummelled with planks and soccer balls and electrocuted in front of an oblivious crowd, all of whom would assume it to be the work of particularly convincing special effects. Patrick was under significant pressure as well, under the demand to keep the beat for a significant portion of the band’s shows and being threatened with goodness knows what sort of punishment if he were to falter on stage.  
The physical and mental pressure was taking its toll, as it inevitably would. Some musicians were becoming noticeably irritable, others falling into misery or isolation instead. Anton and his friends had been struggling through a stress-induced malaise for at least a week now, though it was hard to tell how much time was passing. Patrick was absent from the scene, off in a bathroom somewhere spilling his guts from stress-induced nausea, as he had several times before in recent days. Anton sat alone at a meeting table, dark bags under his tired eyes as he took his moment of peace to simply enjoy the feeling of doing nothing. Still, it was difficult not only as he knew that moment of peace would be brief, but as his whole body ached from his on-stage abuse.  
The contrabassist was almost frustrated to see his friend Hakim arrive to the table, Busy Man in his hands. The dishevelled-looking flutist placed the wooden companion on the table and sat down beside Anton with a weary forced smile.  
“You’re looking kinda down.” Hakim muttered, taking off his shades to reveal heavily bloodshot eyes. “I thought Busy and I would come cheer you up.”  
Anton groaned and rubbed his face miserably, ignoring the little wooden man in front of him. Busy Man sat himself down, making an uncomfortable quiet grinding noise.  
“Where the hell is Patrick?” The bassist grumbled, not lifting his face out of his hands.  
“In the bathroom still, I think.” Hakim muttered in response. “You reckon he’ll be alright for tonight’s show?”  
“NONE OF US WILL, HAKIM!” Anton shrieked, swiping Busy Man violently off the table in a fleeting moment of rage.  
The two of them stared at the spot on the wall where their innocent companion had struck the wall and fallen apart. After a moment of tense silence, Anton rested his head into his folded arms on the table in front of him and began sobbing. Hakim sank wearily into his seat, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and mouthing silent words to himself.

When Anton, Patrick and Hakim visited the woodsman once again, they came looking exhausted, with pure defeat on their faces. They once again expected hostility from the man they had visited so many times before, yet they were once again met with forgiveness. Perhaps it was the wood craftsman’s debt to Anton that forbade him from being anything other than kind to such careless musicians, or perhaps it was the new factor in the woodman’s life that lead to his final decision.  
“Please take my last little wooden fellow.” The craftsman begged with great sadness. “There’s an awful bout of wood rot claiming all my other work, and I don’t want this charming little dear to follow.”  
The musicians doubted this last wooden figure would be any safer with them, but they did as the man had asked of them and took the creature away from the threat of wood-borne disease.

Those with enough will remaining within them to pay attention to the newest wooden companion took to calling him ‘Creepy Woody Man’. The name was not nearly as endearing as the others, but neither was the bearer of the name. Creepy Man neither worked nor played as his brothers did. In fact, he barely showed any signs of a personality at all. Some would turn to find him standing and staring, silent and motionless. When touched, often in an attempt to move him away, Creepy Man would shudder and make an uncomfortable grinding noise. As the days passed, it became clear that Creepy Man was not being threatening or sinister, but there was in fact something quite wrong with him. He would sometimes lie alone in corners, seemingly dead, only to begin shuddering and emitting that hideous noise when approached. On occasion, he had been caught simply convulsing in what must have been horrendous pain.  
It seemed the woodsman had bid Creepy Man farewell too late, for with each passing day, his wooden body slowly rotted away.  
The 1000 People Band’s next show was hours away. Anton, Patrick, and Hakim sat alone together, in hiding. Despite everything, they were still expected to perform that night. They knew they couldn’t do it anymore, and they couldn’t begin to imagine why anyone would force them to in such a state. Though perhaps such was to be expected from those who had them beaten and electrocuted live on stage for amusement’s sake. At least Creepy Man didn’t have to put on a show through his pain and misery. They felt slightly bad for calling him by that name, their sympathy towards the pitiful wooden creature sinking in though the pity of their own situation.  
Sitting on the floor, slumped against the cold wall of their small hiding space, the three of them stared at the Creepy Man as he twitched in agony on the ground in front of them. He was visibly rotted, with at least a third of his painted exterior withered away to reveal the sickly jagged wood beneath.  
“I can’t imagine what that must be like.” Patrick muttered hoarsely, wearily lifting his shaky arm and pointing his bony finger at the dying companion. “Poor thing.”  
The drummer let his arm fall down beside him again, with a sympathetic look on his pale, gaunt face and his cloudy eyes still focused on Creepy Man.  
Hakim gave a grunt in reply, shortly before being overwhelmed by another painful coughing fit. He groaned and ran his trembling fingers through his messy hair as he awaited a response from Anton.   
The contrabassist simply watched in silence. The wilted leaves on his head, the dark bags under his eyes and the yellow-brown patches forming in his usually vibrant green complexion spoke enough.  
Creepy Man convulsed violently as he emitted what could only be the wooden man’s equivalent of a death rattle, then tumbled apart as he finally fell limp. The disconcerting clattering of Creepy Man’s demise was the last sound to fill the room before a ghastly silence took its place, leaving a painful thought to ring loud and clear through the musicians’ heads. Whether or not they were found and forced to perform for an eager crowd, they would likely be soon to follow.


End file.
